


Nightmares and Champagne

by Buckeye01



Series: Double Trouble [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3669597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos carries with him deep emotional scars from a mission that went sour--a mission that almost cost all of his friend's lives. After spending a frightening night with an unconscious Athos in the dark, stormy forest of Torfou--surrounded by dead bodies--Porthos is now having nightmares. Can his friends help him work through the nightmares before they drive him to violence?</p>
<p>**This is a continuation/companion story to <em>Double Trouble</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I promised that I would do a one-shot regarding nightmares Porthos was having about his terrifying night in the forest with Athos (companion story is Double Trouble).  
> However, I tend to get a little wordy as I wind up telling more of a complete story than I anticipated. When I write a story, I try to paint a picture that you--the reader--can visualize while reading. I want you to be able to actually SEE the scenery, see the Musketeers in the scene itself; I want you to HEAR the character's voices say the lines in the dialogue. IF you can picture this story as if you are watching a Musketeers episode, then I will have accomplished my goals. . . and the extra words are just a means to an end.  
> There is a method to my madness!!  
> I hope that you do not mind that I did split this story into three easy-to-read parts.
> 
> I do not want all of my stories to be completely overshadowed in dark angst. . . so I did add some humor to keep it more like an episode. Thousands of Musketeer fans miss the humorous bantering of the first season. . . so I tried to include that in this story. PLEASE let me know IF I got the "character voices" correct!  
> Thank You ALL for Reading!
> 
> **Paille-maille is an early form of croquet and was played on lawns in the 16th and 17th centuries.  
> ** _Palais du Tau_ was the luxurious “home” of the sitting Archbishop of Reims, France. The oldest part of the original building—the chapel--dates back to 1207!!

“I hate flies,” grumbled Porthos. The large Musketeer swats at a fly landing on his sweaty neck. “Damn things,” he growls. “I hate flies!”

“You may have mentioned that once or twice already,” teased d’Artagnan.

“I hate this bloomin’ heat,” continued Porthos. “Standing here doin’ nothin’ but swatting flies in the hot sun. What’s not to love about bein’ on guard duty, eh?” His words dripped with sarcasm.

“I’m bored,” Aramis sighed.

“I could faint, ‘at will give ya’ somethin’ to do,” Porthos smirked at Aramis.

“Give _me_ something to do?” Aramis questioned.

“Aye, you’ll have to take me inside where it’s nice ‘n cool,” he nudged Aramis. “We could get somethin’ to drink. . . relax.”

“And what about us?” d’Artagnan huffed, looking across Porthos and Aramis to Athos on the far end.

“Gentlemen,” Athos warned. “Quiet,” he ordered, shaking his head.

 _“Gentlemen?”_ Aramis repeated, tipping his head to the side. “Well, so polite. . .”

“My feet hurt,” d’Artagnan complained, ignoring Athos’ earlier warning.

“Your feet hurt?” asked Aramis with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I have a rock in my boot,” d’Artagnan winced, shaking his right foot to dislodge the rock.

“Now, there’s _your_ excuse to go inside too,” Porthos snickered.

“I’m tired,” Aramis stifled a yawn. He wiped at the sweat running into his eyes, blinking hard.

“Oh, enough!” Athos interjected, sourly. “I’m growing weary of standing in this incessant heat listening to your childish conversation.”

“Childish?” Aramis feigned insult. “My, aren’t we short-tempered and grouchy today.”

“I am hot, sweating profusely, tired, hungry and thirsty; all the while being subjected to interminable commentary,” Athos glowered.

“So. . .?”

“So,” Athos continued drily, “if that makes me short-tempered and grouchy then, yes, I agree with you. “Just let me endure this misery in peace and quiet.”

The surprise of Athos’ unusual lamenting momentarily shushed the Musketeers. They stood quietly watching as the king played his lawn game, paille-maille.

“I’m starving,” Porthos finally broke the silence.

The comment elicited soft giggles from Aramis and d’Artagnan, each chancing a sideways glance at the grouchy Musketeer.

“There goes the peace and quiet,” Athos muttered.

“Rubbish,” Porthos countered. “Standing under the scorching sun quietly wallowing in our misery. . . rubbish,” Porthos grumbled. “Talkin’ makes it tolerable. We got nothin’ else to do as we wallow in our misery.”

Athos said nothing, but absently rubbed at his temples, his eyes closed.

“What’s the matter?” Aramis watched Athos closely, his brow creased with worry.

“You are all giving me a headache,” he said flatly.

“I would give you something for the headache but I don’t have anything with me out here,” Aramis shrugged. 

“Ah, now there’s Athos’ excuse to go inside.” Porthos smiled from ear to ear. “Now we each have an excuse to go inside and ge’ ou’ of this miserable heat.” His smile faded slowly into a frown as he thought about _how_ they would pull this off.

“We’ll all just leave our post and slip inside the palace without the king—or the captain—noticing, huh?” D’Artagnan bantered.

“Maybe if we slipped away one at a time they won’t notice, eh?” Porthos winked.

“I go first,” Aramis called out.

“Hey, who says you get to go first?” D’Artagnan frowned, leaning his head forward around Porthos’ large frame.

“A moment’s peace. . . it’s all I ask,” Athos drawled.

“Eh, you had your moment’s peace, a few minutes ago,” Porthos nodded. “It was short-lived but. . .”

“. . . but a moment could be one minute or five. You didn’t specify how long to be quiet,” Aramis deadpanned as he stared straight ahead, trying hard not to smile.

Stifled snickering emanated from both Porthos and d’Artagnan.

“Someone, please, shoot me and put me out of my misery,” Athos muttered to himself.

“I can arrange that,” Aramis cracked, unable to hide the smile any longer.

Snickers turned into full-blown giggles from three-fourths of the brothers.

“What is going on over here?” the captain whispered gruffly.

“Captain, if we have to stand here simmering under the hot sun much longer while the king plays his lawn games. . .” Athos stopped himself short, remembering his place while on duty.

“Gentlemen, I understand it is hot,” said Captain Tréville. “If the game continues much longer, I will send for replacements so you can get a break. How long has it been since you have had any water?”

“Hours, Captain,” Aramis answered with an irked tone.

“Alright, let me see what I can do,” Tréville frowned. “In the meantime, keep it down over here.” The captain walked away, hiding the smile spreading across his face.

“You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you?” Athos scolded Aramis, forgetting to keep his own voice down.

“Why are you yelling at me? Aramis asked, incredulous. “Porthos started it!”

“This is going to be a long day,” Athos groaned.

 

“It is no wonder the king’s decoy and our brothers were killed,” said one of two passing Red Guardsmen. “These Musketeers don’t take their jobs seriously; everything is fun and games to them.”

“What did you say,” growled Porthos as he turned to face the guards.

“You got six of our brothers killed that day. . . Musketeers.” The guard spoke their title with an insulting sneer.

 _"We_ got six guards killed?” Aramis repeated, flabbergasted.

“Why, you. . .” Porthos stepped toward the guards ready to tear into them.

"Enough of this!” yelled Captain Tréville in a commanding tone. “You guards, go back to your assigned post, now!” The captain ordered the men tersely.

“Gentlemen,” the captain turned his attention to his four Musketeers. “I have replacements here to relieve you for the remainder of the day,” the captain said pointedly. “You will return to the garrison with me.”

The four exchanged worried glances, following in step behind the captain.

“Cap’n,” Porthos broke the uneasy silence. “We didn’t start that argument back there wit’ the guards.”

“I know that, Porthos,” the captain stopped to face his men. “Those two guards, in particular, have gotten into scuffles with my Musketeers before, but this is the last time. I will be speaking to the king about having them removed as soon as possible.”

“Okay, so why do we have to go back to the garrison?” Aramis hesitated, questioningly.

“I’m not upset, if that is what concerns you men,” the captain assured them. “Relax gentlemen, I have a mission for the four of you. You will be leaving for Reims in the morning.”

*****

**Musketeer Garrison:**

 

“The king and queen will be entertaining guests all this week,” began the captain. “I assume you prefer _not_ to be assigned to any further guard detail,” Tréville paused, waiting.

“Yes, Captain,” the four Musketeers agreed, nodding.

“Thought as much,” the captain nodded. “I am sending the four of you on a three, maybe four, day mission to Reims. You will be delivering an important letter from the king to the archbishop at the _Palais du Tau,_ where you will deliver the letter. He will be expecting you,” the captain stated directly.

“That doesn’t sound difficult,” Athos surmised. “How important is this letter, Captain? Is it covert?” Athos voiced the group’s underlying worry.

“No, gentlemen, this is a routine business correspondence,” the captain said, sensing their hesitation. “The letter is nothing dangerous--but it is important to the archbishop—so it is imperative the letter reach him safely. You will remain vigilant at all times, of course.”

“We can handle ‘at, Cap’n.” Porthos looked to the others for support.

The other Musketeers nodded quietly.

“The letter is sealed and will remain as such until the archbishop himself opens it.” Captain Tréville handed the sealed letter to Athos with a silent _be careful_ conveyed through a silent glance. “Are we clear, gentlemen?”

“Yes sir,” answered Athos and the others together.

“You will leave at first light. Dismissed,” the captain concluded.

 

**Later That Night**

The candlelight brightened their corner of the large mess hall. The Musketeers lounged lazily on benches around their favorite table, plates of unfinished food pushed to the side. The men helped themselves to the bottles of wine and four cups that Serge provided much to their delight, especially Athos and Porthos.

No one spoke during dinner, each lost in private thoughts of the brief confrontation with the Red Guards—and the memories it conjured up.

“What those guards said back there at the palace was not true,” Aramis finally said, breaking the tense silence. He stared into his cup, remembering the events of that near-fatal mission to Orléans. He wanted to push the horrible memories far away, far out of his mind. 

They had done so well at not looking back—not even speaking about the mission—after Athos had recovered from his near-fatal illness. It was easier to pretend it never happened, moving on with life and work as usual, than to bring up bad memories in casual conversation.

Now, one comment has caused the buried memories to come flooding back. The dam that once held the grisly remembrances safely stored away may be too far broken to hold back the oncoming flood.

“It was nobody’s fault anyone was hurt or killed. . . nobody’s but those damn raiders!” Porthos slammed his cup to the table, sloshing the contents.

“They forget, we were almost killed too,” d’Artagnan whispered. His dark eyes were visibly haunted by the images passing through his mind.

“There is no point in having this conversation,” Athos said dully, his tone flat. “It matters not what those guards said; they were looking for a fight and you fell for it. Nothing said will ever change what happened.”

“We all knew eventually this subject would come up,” d’Artagnan spoke candidly. “We can’t ignore it forever—we need to face it sometime.”

“Right now, it’s time to get some rest. We rise early with a long day’s ride ahead.” Athos emptied his cup with one last gulp of wine. “A good night’s sleep is what we need. . . not gratuitous conversation.” Athos rose from the bench, leaving his brothers staring after him with surprise and sadness.

 

The three remaining Musketeers arrived in the barracks to find their leader already bunked down, his face covered with his hat. It was obvious to the three latecomers that bedtime conversation was not welcome in the room tonight. They each slipped into their bunks and quietly closed their eyes—their minds swirling with memories emerging free from a shallow grave.

*****

The Musketeers were jolted awake by a scream, “get away, don’t come near us! Stay back, damn you!”

“What the hell?” Athos mumbled as he sat up, looking in Porthos’ direction.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan called.

Aramis got up to check on his friend but stubbed his toes on the bed frame in the scant light of the quarter moon. “Ah, damn,” he cursed under his breath.

“One. . . two. . .”

“What?” Aramis asked, gently shaking the shoulder of Porthos. The Musketeer didn’t want to startle the sleeping man, obviously caught in the grip of a terrifying nightmare. “Porthos, wake up, brother—you’re having a bad dream. It’s just a bad dream,” he whispered, stroking the curled hair.

Porthos awoke and quickly scrambled up against the wall, his eyes wide with terror. 

“Porthos, it’s me. It’s ‘Mis—it’s alright. You were having a bad dream. It’s over—you’re safe.”

“Is he alright?” Athos called, sitting on the edge of the bunk watching his friend with concern.

“Yes. . . I’m fine,” Porthos grumbled after a moment.

“Here, lay down,” Aramis ordered gently. 

Porthos crawled back to his place on the bunk and lay down without protest, Aramis quietly took his place right beside him. The consoling Musketeer turned to face his trembling friend, “it’s okay,” he whispered. He draped his arm across Porthos’ chest in silent comfort, “I’m here now.”

They both closed their eyes and went to sleep.

 

Athos lay back down on his bunk, smiling softly at the shadowy figures sleeping soundly on the bunk a few feet away. Closing his eyes, Athos fell into a restful sleep, not moving until he was woken in the morning by the captain for the day’s mission.

*****

“I’m not so sure anymore that we got the better end of this deal,” Aramis spoke after a long silence on the dusty road.

“Grrr,” Porthos gave a throaty growl. “I know we didn’t. At least at the palace we got breaks to go inside to cool dow’ a bit.”

“Yeah, all we have out here is heat, boredom, and even more flies.” d’Artagnan swatted irritably at an annoying fly buzzing around his ear. “And sweaty, smelly horses,” the young Gascon continued grumbling.

“I thought all of you hated guard duty?” Athos said lightly, the smile evident in his tone.

“Remind me of this trip the next time I complain abou’ guard duty,” Porthos muttered.

Athos chuckled softly, wearing a smile as he watched his grouchy friend.

Aramis inwardly smiled as he watched Athos smiling at Porthos. The screams of last night’s nightmare were long forgotten in the heat and dust of the long, tiring journey.

“I’m bored.” Aramis remarked jovially, quite pleased with himself as he got another round of playful and entertaining banter going.

*****

“We’re going to need to bed down for the night somewhere,” Athos remarked. “It doesn’t appear there are any villages close by so we’ll just have to bivouac out here.”

“The cool evening air will feel good compared to this unbearably hot day,” Aramis replied.

“I need a bath,” Porthos grumbled. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“What are ya tryin’ to say, whelp?” Porthos narrowed his eyes, glowering at the Gascon.

“I meant. . . I didn’t. . . I wasn’t trying. . .” d’Artagnan stumbled and stuttered, his eyes wide.

“Ah-ha-ha,” Porthos laughed heartily, doubling over in the saddle. “I got you, lad. I knew what ya meant.”

“Aha, aha,” d’Artagnan mocked. He rolled his eyes and shook his head after a quick glance at the still-laughing Musketeer.

“Hell, I could use a bath and something to wring out all of this sweat in my clothes,” Aramis murmured. “I’m looking for the next stream to dip in—fully clothed—I can wash myself and my clothes at the same time.” 

“Hey, there’s your stream, ‘Mis!” d’Artagnan called out, glancing over his shoulder to his friend behind him.

“Well, what do you know,” Aramis smiled, letting out a satisfied huff of air.

“You do have the innate knack. . .” Athos shook his head. “We’ll bivouac here tonight, away from the road in those trees.” Athos pointed to a wooded area near the stream.

*****

Later, Aramis returned from the stream dripping wet, carrying his boots, outer cloak, and weapons belt.

“You feel better now?” Porthos asked with a laugh.

“Yes. . . except for one small matter,” Aramis crinkled his face with realization.

“What’s that, “Mis?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Now I have to sleep in wet clothes,” he frowned.

*****

Athos was awakened by the sound of snapping twigs. He immediately grabbed his harquebus and pointed it in the direction of the noise.

“Sorry, Athos,” Porthos whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you—was tryin’ to be quiet.

“Where are you going?” Aramis inquired tiredly, sitting up after hearing the commotion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Porthos grumbled. “I was just goin’ over there to sit by the stream,” he pointed.

“I’ll sit with you,” Aramis said, getting up to follow his friend to the stream. “Go back to sleep,” he stopped beside Athos. “I’ll sit with Porthos for a while.”

Athos nodded his understanding and watched after them with concern until his friends disappeared into the dark.

D’Artagnan glanced a worried look at Athos. "Is he okay?”

“Yes, Porthos is okay—he has Aramis with him.” 

D’Artagnan lay back down saying nothing further. The deep concern the young Gascon had for Porthos and his state of mind was growing larger by the day. He feared that one day the dam would break.

*****

Aramis quietly sat on a large tree trunk next to Porthos, smiling as he stared at the river. Neither Musketeer spoke a word but sat listening to the gentle babbling of the stream. The soothing sound of the water visibly calmed the large Musketeer. Aramis watched as the soft moonlight highlighted the lines of worry slowly disappearing from Porthos’ face.

“You want to talk about it?” Aramis asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Nah, nothin’ to talk about.”

“Ah, don’t give me that, Porthos.” Aramis shook his head, disappointed. He was not going to allow his friend to shut him out.

“I can’t sleep—that’s all,” Porthos lied.

“How long have you had these dreams?” Aramis cut to the chase.

Porthos sat quietly for a long spell, lost in deep, personal thought. “I had bad dreams right after. . . after we go’ back from the château,” Porthos admitted softly. “But they stopped and I haven’t had one since, until. . .”

“. . . until last night.” Aramis surmised, figuring out correctly the cause of the nightmares.

“Aye, those guards at the palace seemed to have unburied some bad memories. I though’ I was done wit’ this. Now, I’m afraid to go to sleep.” 

“What do you see in your dreams?” Aramis asked softly. “Talk to me.”

Porthos shook his head, his jaw set hard.

“Porthos? How can you push me away when you were always there to help me deal with my own nightmares?”

“It’s not the same,” Porthos downplayed the severity of his own nightmares. “It’s not like Savoy.”

“Do you think no one noticed when you were having those bad dreams after we got back from Chamarande?” Aramis asked.

Porthos glanced quizzically at Aramis.

“You don’t think we noticed the dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep? You don’t think we noticed you became very irritable that week or two—losing your temper at the drop of a hat and snapping at everyone?” Aramis remembered, shaking his head.

Porthos remained quiet, staring at the stream.

"The captain, Athos, d’Artagnan, me—we were all worried about you. They wanted me to talk to you—and I was going to—but then you snapped back to your normal, jovial self.” Aramis admitted. “I thought it was just residual effects from the mission; that perhaps you had worked it all out. We all thought you were fine. Now I know that we were wrong.”

*****

The darkness was shattered by the terrified scream of Porthos, causing everyone to sit bolt upright where they lay.

“Athos, where are you?” Porthos called out in his dream. “Answer me, dammit!”

Athos quickly crawled to Porthos’ side, “I’m here, Porthos.”

“I see the blood. . . no! Please, God,” Porthos whimpered. “Let him be alive.”

“Porthos, it’s me,” Athos said, his voice thick with emotion. “I am alive. I am right here,” he gently placed his hand on Porthos’ shoulder. He took the large hand in his own and gave it a firm squeeze. 

“I have to get ‘im out o’ here.”

“Porthos, it’s Aramis,” he whispered near his friend’s ear. “You’re dreaming again. Athos is right here with us—he’s okay. You saved him, remember?”

“I need shelter. . . I can’t see!” Porthos writhed in his sleep, his head tossing from side to side in quick motions. “Four. . . I only see four! Where is the other one? Where did he go?”

“Athos, we need to _do_ something,” d’Artagnan yelled. “He’s starting to panic!”

“Porthos, wake up! It’s ‘Mis. . . come on, brother, wake up!” Aramis grabbed Porthos by both shoulders. 

Athos let go of the hand he had been holding to position himself more at Porthos’ waist –to help hold him down, but not soon enough. 

With lightning speed, Porthos sat up, punching Aramis square on the jaw, knocking him flat on his back. Athos and d’Artagnan jumped into motion, each restraining an arm to prevent Porthos from further harming the downed Musketeer.

“Porthos, wake up!” Athos yelled, no longer trying to be gentle. “We’re not in Torfou anymore—you got us out. Wake up, damn you!”

“Athos?” Porthos tugged, trying to get out of the firm grip of Athos’ hands. “Wha’ happ’nd? ‘Mis?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Aramis answered, rubbing his sore jaw. “Good thing I’ve got a strong jaw,” he chuckled. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been knocked flat.”

“Did I. . .?” Porthos stopped short, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched Aramis still lying on the ground rubbing his jaw. “Did I do that?”

“You were dreaming again,” Athos said, concerned. “You were calling out for me. Porthos, I do not know all that took place in the forest when you came to find me—but you _did_ find me. You got us both out of there. I’m alive because of you.” 

Athos’ eyes suddenly seemed to bore right through Porthos as an image of that dark, stormy night flashed through his mind. 

“Athos?” D’Artagnan watched his mentor with concern as Athos seemed frozen, locked in a memory of the forest. Just as quickly, however, the image was gone. The Musketeer lieutenant blinked then looked to Porthos for answers. 

"What do you remember?" Porthos asked. 

“I remember there were four raiders. . . they were all around me.” Athos whispered softly, his eyes cast downward. “I didn’t see the fifth man—he must have been behind me.”

Fear of unknown and unspoken accounts of that night still clouded Athos’ memory. Only Porthos knew exactly what happened that night in Torfou. Only Porthos could fill in the missing pieces of the scattered images--seemingly from a lifetime ago. 

It was a night that could slip into oblivion and every Musketeer would be the better for it.

“Porthos, what happened that night?” d’Artagnan asked, trying to get his friend to offload the memories weighing on his mind. Terrifying memories that Porthos relived in his dreams; they kept him awake at night and haunted him to his very core.

“I don’ wan’ to talk about it.” Porthos got up and started to walk away.

Aramis caught his friend by the elbow. “Porthos, you don’t have to endure this alone; we are trying to help you. We are trying to understand what is haunting you, but we can’t help you if you refuse to let us in.”

“I jus’ need to be alone for a while.” Porthos set his jaw hard.

“Porthos, trust me, the nightmares will never go away so long as you keep them bottled up inside,” Aramis pleaded once last time. 

Porthos pulled away from Aramis’ grip and walked away. The tormented man buried his dreams deep inside the darkest corners of his mind, but they would certainly come out again another night.

Aramis called after him, “Porthos, we can’t help you if we don’t know what happened that night."

Porthos ignored the attempts to pull the events of that night out of him. He just wasn’t ready emotionally to reveal the horrors he endured that fateful night. If only he could simply wash the slate clean, forgetting that night ever happened. Forgetting the bodies that lay in the dark, illuminated by flashes of light; bodies he feared would be missing the next time the light flashed. It was a raw fear that he was not yet ready to face. Not with his friends. Not with himself. 

 

“Do you know what happened that night that has him so terrified?” d’Artagnan asked Athos.

Athos shook his head quietly. “No, all I remember is just images—broken pieces of a picture I cannot put together. Whatever happened after I was shot is something only Porthos can reveal,” Athos stated darkly. 

“One day, the memories will come out in force—with all its anguish. We had better brace ourselves against the torrent of rage and fear that may come with exposing the events of that night in the forest,” Athos warned grimly.

“And when that happens, we are the only hope Porthos will have in getting past the nightmares,” Aramis stated with a sense of foreboding. “Believe me, it’s easy to combust in your own personal hell and drown in your own custom-made sea of despair and guilt.” 

Aramis looked to the spot where Porthos sat beside the stream, knowing full well the inner turmoil his friend was experiencing with these nightmares. Though he wanted to help, Aramis knew he couldn't press the issue without risking complete withdrawal of his friend. 

Aramis’ heart broke for his brother, Porthos. . . and he softly cried himself to sleep.

 

To Be Continued. . .


	2. Nightmares and Champagne, Part II

Athos startled awake with a gasp. He sat upright, looking around trying to remember where he was exactly. d’Artagnan was next to him, still sound asleep with an arm draped over his eyes. 

His heart skipped a beat when he realized that Porthos and Aramis were missing. Though he looked around their bivouac site, they were nowhere to be seen.

Athos remembered that Porthos liked to sit near the stream so he walked toward the sound of the water and, sure enough, found both missing Musketeers sitting beside each other on the log.

“Good morning,” Athos called out. “How long have you been awake?” Athos stopped short when he caught sight of Porthos’s shadowed face. His eyes were showing the weariness from lack of sleep, dark circles underneath red eyes.

“Aw, Porthos.” Athos groaned, suddenly cognizant that his friend has been awake all night.

“He’s alright,” Aramis remarked. “Besides, I kept him company,” he smiled. “We saw a shooting star and watched the sun rise. . . can’t get much better than that.”

“We have another long ride ahead of us and neither of you have slept,” Athos shook his head. “I am beginning to regret not taking the guard duty more and more as each day passes,” he drawled.

Porthos chuckled, “I won’t complain abou’ the king’s lawn games ever again.”

“Ha,” Aramis snorted. “I bet you’ll complain about something the first hour we’re on duty. You’re my witness, Athos, you heard me. I’ll wager a bet Porthos here won’t make the first hour without complaining—next guard duty.”

“One hour,” Athos said with a slight huff. “That remains to be seen,” he smiled at his two friends.

“So, how long were all of you going to let me sleep?” D’Artagnan broke the silence.

Athos turned to find the young Gascon standing behind him, his dark hair disheveled and clothes tousled. He couldn’t help the small chuckle escaping at the sight of his young brother Musketeer.

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, rubbing at his eyes still half asleep.

“We need to get moving. If we leave now, we can reach Reims by sundown.” Athos' demeanor turned serious in an instant.“It is time to get back to the mission; we’re wasting daylight.” He turned on his heel to head back to the bivouac site.

“You heard the man,” Aramis slapped his hand down on Porthos’ knee and patted softly a few times. “Time to get back to work—duty calls.”

Porthos gave a soft huff of displeasure at having to leave his favorite spot. On this log, beside the stream, there were no nightmares. He didn’t get any sleep, but he didn’t need sleep when he was content and at peace—for a few restful hours.

*****

After stopping in the first village they entered, the Musketeers found a place to get some breakfast; as well as water and feed for their horses. Their Musketeer pauldrons elicited several stares and quiet whispers from the locals not used to seeing King’s Musketeers in their small, remote village.

Mostly, the Musketeers ignored the gawking stares and whispers and ate their breakfast, quietly keeping to themselves. Except for Aramis, whose eye caught sight of the tavern owner’s daughter looking his way. The suave Musketeer raised his hat, tipping his head slightly with gentlemanly manners to the fair, blonde young lady. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Porthos warned, glancing sideways at Aramis.

“What’s the name of this village?” Aramis inquired. “I may have to come back. . .”

“Never mind,” Athos said drily. “It’s time we get back on the road.”

As they left the tavern, Aramis turned for one last glimpse of the lovely young girl still smiling at him. “Such a shame, a perfect opportunity lost.” Aramis bowed at the waist, raising his hat once more to the pretty girl, before turning on his heel to follow his brother Musketeers.

 

Back on the road, with stomachs full and feeling refreshed, it didn’t take long before the playful –yet trivial—conversation began again.

“I’m tired,” Aramis yawned loudly, stretching his arms out wide before scrubbing a hand over his weary face.

“You should have slept last night then,” d’Artagnan quipped.

“I had to make sure Porthos here didn’t go sleepwalking and get himself lost in the forest somewhere,” Aramis chaffed lightly.

“Rubbish, I wouldn’t have gotten lost.” Porthos winked at Aramis.

“Sure was a pretty girl back there,” Aramis said, his mind wandering back to the tavern. “Wish I knew the name of that village.”

“It’s best that you do not know,” Athos drawled blandly. “She was too young for you,”

“Too young for me?” Aramis repeated. “Athos, I’m hurt.” He removed his hat and placed it over his heart.

“I think you’ve gotten yourself into enough trouble recently,” Athos scolded. “You need to avoid the opposite sex for a while, my friend.”

“You’re a hard taskmaster,” Aramis grumbled,replacing the hat on his head.

“Are we there yet?” d’Artagnan bantered.

“We can’t reach Reims soon enough,” Porthos muttered, grouchy from lack of sleep. “I’ll be glad when this bloody trip is over.”

*****

**Later, in Reims:**

 

Finally, as the sun was beginning to set in the western sky, the Musketeers reached the town of Reims. They wound their way through the dusty streets of the town to the _Palais du Tau_ where they meet guards at an iron gate.

“I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers,” Athos introduced himself. “We have business with the archbishop—he is expecting us,” his tone conveyed authority.

 

The Musketeers are led to where the archbishop is signing papers at his desk in a large study. Athos hands to the archbishop his sealed letter, giving a respectful bow. “Your expected correspondence from the king, Your Grace.” 

“Thank you, Musketeers,” the archbishop checked the wax seal and nodded. “Well done. I will have M. Deniel show you to your rooms for the night. He will also show you to the dining room where you may have dinner before you retire for the evening. He will call on you in the morning for breakfast before you begin your journey home. Again, thank you, Musketeers. That is all.”

The four Musketeers bowed and made their exit, following M. Deniel to their rooms.

*****

**Later That Night:**

After dinner the Musketeers were escorted back to their rooms for the evening by M. Deniel. “Is there anything that I can get for you gentlemen?” M. Deniel asked.

“Yes, actually, there is.” Athos answered for the men. “Would it be possible to get a bottle of wine and four cups sent up to my room, please?”

“Oui, monsieur,” answered M. Deniel. “I’ll bring them right up.

 

M. Deniel returned after a few moments with a bottle of Champagne wine and four goblets. “Enjoy, monsieur. Bonne nuit.”

“Merci,” the Musketeers answered in unison.

“Well, I sure wasn’t expecting this,” Aramis said, holding up the bottle in awe. “To what do we owe the pleasure and the honor?”

“Perhaps the archbishop is pleased with his letter,” Athos said, amazed. “Though I am quite surprised we were given such a fine wine as this—it is usually reserved for the nobles and the wealthy.”

“This region is known for their fine wine. I never expected I would ever taste any—can’t afford it.” Aramis shook his head, still holding the bottle.

“Maybe we should come ‘ere more often, eh?” Porthos clapped Aramis happily on the shoulder.

“Then, what are you waiting for?” d’Artagnan said with excitement. “Let’s open it up and try it.”

Aramis opened the bottle and swirled the open top under his nose, “mm, smells nice.”

Taking the four goblets, Aramis poured a generous amount in each. He picked up his goblet to give a toast, “to the Archbishop.”

“To the archbishop,” the three said, holding their goblets up.

“Ah, now ‘at’s good wine. We really should come ‘ere more often.” Porthos smiled broadly.

*****

After nearly two hours of conversation over good wine Athos called it a night, ordering everyone off to bed. “We have to rise early if we’re going to have a decent start at the long ride home. So let’s all get some good rest tonight, shall we?”

“I think I’ll sleep like a baby after having that lovely wine,” said Aramis. “My taste buds are still in Heaven,” he smiled.

“I would love to share some Champagne with Constance,” d’Artagnan remarked. “I _know_ she would love it.”

“Go on. Go, all of you, off to bed.” Athos ordered as he pushed his friends out of the room and shut the door. He stood with his hand on the knob, allowing a broad smile to spread across his face. “My brothers. . .” he fondly remembered their conversation over the excellent bottle of Champagne.

Turning to the bed, Athos stopped at the table to pick up the now empty bottle of Champagne. “It is a good thing I do not have access to this wine at home. A very good thing indeed,” he put the bottle down and went to bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

*****

“I’m staying with you tonight,” Aramis told Porthos as they stood outside his room.

“I don’ need a mother hen watchin’ over me,” Porthos grumbled.

“True, you do not,” Aramis agreed. “But the company will do you good _if_ your bad dreams return tonight. I don’t want you to have to face your nightmares alone. Besides, you always sleep better—in such cases—when someone is with you.” Aramis remained stubborn.

“In that case,” d’Artagnan interjected, “I’ll stay too—you might need help.”

“Rubbish, both of you.” Porthos glared at his two friends, who stood with crossed arms, shoulder to shoulder.

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged silent glances, neither giving in.

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Fine, you can stay,” he acquiesced.

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan were immediately awakened as they felt Porthos, who slept in between his two friends on the large bed, started twitching, shaking his head side-to-side in rapid movements.

“Uh oh, d’Artagnan sat up. “‘Mis? Maybe we should wake him before he even has a chance to get too deeply into the dream?”

“Agreed,” Aramis said in a low whisper. “Porthos? Come on, brother, wake up.” The medic shook the broad shoulders gently.

“God, help it stop raining. . .” Porthos mumbled. “Stop the thunder, please. . . I need to hear if they move.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan traded horrified glances. “What the hell did he see out there?” d’Artagnan voiced.

“Wake up, Porthos.” Aramis shook the shoulders with more urgency. “Porthos, you’re not in the forest anymore. Wake up!”

“I need light. . . I have to count the bodies. . . they’re coming. . . they’re coming! No!”

Suddenly, Porthos sat upright in bed screaming. “No!” Porthos gasped, his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

Aramis and d’Artagnan each held an arm in their strong grip, preventing Porthos from causing anyone harm.

“Porthos, slow down your breathing,” Aramis instructed gently. “You were dreaming, but it’s over. You’re okay now. Just try to take slow, easy breaths.”

“No, it was real. I saw ‘em.” 

“No, you were dreaming, my friend.” D’Artagnan rubbed his hand in soothing circles on Porthos’ back. “We’re not in the forest, Porthos. We’re at the _Palais du Tau,_ remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Porthos said after a minute. He concentrated on getting his breathing under control, his head cradled in his hands. “Hell, I could use some more of that Champagne.”

“Ha,” Aramis exhaled a huff of air. “You and me, both.”

“Um, excuse me,” d’Artagnan cracked, with feigned insult. “Make that _all of us."_

“Right, of course,” Aramis corrected himself. “That’s what I meant.”

*****

After breakfast the Musketeers were preparing to leave the palace for their journey home when the archbishop called from his study.

“Athos, if I may?” The archbishop quickly followed after the Musketeers, stopping them before they left.

The Musketeers bowed reverently. “Your Grace?” Athos asked expectantly, as he bowed at the waist.

“Forgive my tardiness with this, gentlemen,” said the archbishop. “I have a letter I would like delivered to the king. If you would be so kind to deliver this _directly_ to the king,” he handed Athos a letter sealed with his Episcopal ring.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Athos bowed. “We would be happy to deliver this letter for you. After all, you have been most gracious with your hospitality.”

“Very good, thank you,” the archbishop nodded. “I have something I would like for you to take home with you.”

M. Deniel handed a bottle to the archbishop, who then handed it to Athos. “A memento from our proud city,” the archbishop smiled. “Godspeed on your journey home; I do hope that we may meet again. God go with you,” he said, returning to his study.

Athos turned the bottle in his hands, his eyebrows raised in amazement. 

“Is that what I think it is?” d’Artagnan asked, trying to get a glance at the bottle.

“Indeed it is, d’Artagnan. We’ll save this for when we get home. Oh, and Porthos?” Athos’s mouth curled with the hint of a wry smile. “When you complain about the heat and the flies and the dust on the road, remember that we would never get this,” he held up the bottle of Champagne, “on guard duty at the palace.”

Aramis laughed, “now we have something to look forward to after the long ride home.” He clapped Porthos and d’Artagnan heartily on the shoulders. 

“Aye, I can’t wait to get home.” Porthos laughed, clapping his hands together with excitement.

*****

**Late Afternoon:**

 

“Hey, ‘Mis,” Porthos called. “Do you see those clouds over there?” He tipped his head toward the western skies. “That don’t look too good.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Aramis agreed. “Athos, do you see the clouds? Looks like we’re in for a storm,” stating the obvious. “How far to the next village?”

“We’ve got a long way to go before we get to the next village.” Athos shook his head, watching the western sky. “There’s just not much civilization along this road between Paris and Reims.”

“We’ve noticed,” d’Artagnan remarked drily.

It wasn’t long before the wind started to pick up and the skies turned dark.

“If we had known it was going to storm we could have stayed in Reims an extra day.” D’Artagnan turned his head away from the blowing wind.

“Instead, we’re going to get trapped right in the mid’le of it,” Porthos growled. “I hate gettin’ wet.”

“I thought you didn’t like heat, flies and dust?” Aramis joked. “We’ve endured plenty of each today on this road! Looks like this storm will blow all your hated vices away—you might even get a bath as part of the bargain."

D’Artagnan giggled.

“What are you tryin’ to say, ‘Mis?” Porthos narrowed his eyes.

“He’s saying you need a bath, Porthos.” Athos interjected drily. 

D’Artagnan and Aramis giggled.

 

A sudden strong gust of wind blew, nearly stealing the Musketeer’s hats away; each had to reach up to hold down their headgear. The horses snort loudly, sensing danger coming their way.

“We may not be able to ride through this storm if it continues to worsen,” yelled Athos over the loud wind to Aramis beside him. “Let’s give it a few more minutes and see.”

The wind only worsened in intensity, becoming so strong the horses were having difficulty walking in a straight line; and the men were having a hard time staying in the saddle. The Musketeers long ago gave up trying to hold down their headgear, having stuffed their hats into saddlebags.

The skies then opened up with a pouring rain mixed with small beads of hail, hitting hard against bare heads and faces. “We have to take shelter in the forest—go deep into the trees.” Athos turned, yelling loudly over his shoulder to the men behind him. “We have to wait for the storm to pass.”

Athos went first, leading the way into the trees to seek shelter from the angry storm. He continued riding as he looked for a place where all four horses and riders could comfortably fit while waiting for the storm to pass.

“We’ll wait here!” Athos continued having to yell in order to be heard over the wind roaring through the tree tops. 

“I don’t know that this storm is going to pass anytime soon!” Aramis wiped away the water dripping into his eyes from his wet hair. “We may end up being in here all night.”

An audible groan escaped from Porthos—which he instantly regretted as all eyes turned to him. 

“Are you okay?” d’Artagnan asked with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Porthos lied. “I don’t like it in here. . . but it’s no bet’er out there.” A growing sense of foreboding started weighing heavily on his mind. His heart sunk in his chest at Athos’ order to take refuge in the forest, yet he had no choice but to obey.

The last time Athos ordered them into the trees to escape a threat it did not end well for any of them.

Now, Porthos found himself having escaped into the forest again. Though it was along a different road, on a different mission, and a different threat, everything else felt the same. Queer feelings of déjà vu flooded over the large man, sending shivers throughout his body.

“Porthos? What’s wrong?” Aramis asked. The pale complexion of his friend, with an obvious look of fear brewing in his large dark eyes, worried the medic. “Porthos,” Aramis whispered softly as he sat next to him still on horseback. “Is being here in the forest frightening you?”

The eyes of the frightened man darted nervously around the group, who were all watching him with concern. _Or is it pity I see in their eyes?_

“Porthos, you’re among friends—brothers—there’s no need to hide to your fears from us.” Aramis soothed. “We only want to help.”

The large Musketeer shook his head. "No, I’m fine, ‘Mis.” Having gotten control of his emotions, Porthos buried his fear down deep in order to put on a brave front.

“Mm-hmm” Aramis gave a throaty sound of disbelief, not buying his friend’s brave face. He has heard enough of the nighttime mutterings to start putting together the pieces. He knew that in Porthos' mind, he was trapped in the frightening forest of Torfou, surrounded by dead bodies in a storm. 

The pieces of realization were starting to fall into place. Aramis knew Porthos’ fear was of being trapped in the forest during another storm. The only part missing were the dead bodies. _We can do without that part, that’s for certain. We must stay vigilant to make sure that grisly detail remains absent from this particular situation._

Aramis and d’Artagnan traded anxious glances. They were thinking of Porthos’ words during his latest dream at the palace in Reim. It was quite apparent to Aramis that every dream Porthos was experiencing was getting more frightening in detail than the one before.

If the same details were mixed together again—even though this was a different place and a different mission--there was no telling how Porthos might react. 

Aramis knew that Porthos was outwardly putting on a brave front; but that bravery disappeared when trapped in the grip of a violent and terrifying dream. 

God forbid, if they had to stay the night in this forest because of the storm. 

Both d’Artagnan and Aramis breathed a sigh of dread and braced themselves mentally for what could be a very long and difficult night ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reims France sits in the Champagne-Ardenne region. Their local wine—called Champagne to represent the region—actually began as a mild, flat type of wine similar to a burgundy. The Champagne was a favorite among royalty and the wealthy in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries.  
> In 19th century France, the first sparkling Champagne (as we all know it today) was actually created by accident! The pressure in the bottle, due to the fermentation of the wine, caused the corks to explode off when opened. Champagne was given the nickname, _"the devil's wine"_ due to the inability to control that explosive action when the corks were removed, making opening the bottle quite dangerous!  
>  The name 'Champagne' has VERY strict regulations attached...and ONLY wine from the Champagne region is called by that name.


	3. Nightmares and Champagne, Part III

The pieces of realization were falling into place in Aramis’s mind. He knew Porthos’ fear of being trapped in the forest during another storm—the only part missing were the dead bodies.

Both d’Artagnan and Aramis breathed a sigh of dread and braced themselves mentally for what could be a very long and difficult night ahead.

*****

**Later That Night:**

 

As the hours passed, it was obvious to all the men that the storm was not going to dissipate as they had hoped. The terrible storm seemed to have parked itself over the Musketeers as if some greater force of nature was playing deliberate and cruel tricks.

To Athos, the lingering storm was an irritation because it put them severely behind schedule. To the others, however, this unplanned stop posed a threat neither man could put a finger on.

To Porthos, especially, the storm presented itself more like the myth of _Pandora’s box,_ containing all the particular evils of his darkest dreams. Somehow the large Musketeer knew this storm—in this forest—was going to bring with it adverse and far-reaching consequences.

It seemed, oddly enough, as though they were caught in the current of a fast-flowing stream. Once caught in the current’s grip, one would be carried away with it downstream; being pulled under the surface, tumbling to and fro at the mercy of the water. 

Tonight, they were at the mercy of fate.

*****

“We will bivouac here,” Athos said while assessing the area, looking all around in a full circle. “Looks like this may the best place,” he said. “The ground is dry and the wood appears dry so we can start a fire for light. It’s going to be pitch-black dark in here very soon.”

“I’ll go search for firewood,” Aramis offered.

“I’ll come wit’ ya.” Porthos followed, joining his friend in the search.

“D’Artagnan, why don’t you secure the horses to that log over there,” Athos pointed. “Make sure they are tied down _very well_ so when they are spooked by thunder they cannot run away.”

“Sure thing,” answered d’Artagnan. “The last thing we need is to lose our mounts and get stranded out in the middle of nowhere miles from home.” The young Gascon muttered to himself as he went about tying up the horses.

 

Aramis and Porthos returned with a good armload each of firewood, dropping their loads to the ground at their feet. “There’s more scattered around here and there,” Aramis said to Athos. “We’re going to get every bit of loose wood that we can find—just to be safe.” 

The two Musketeers headed back into the trees to gather up more wood and kindle to start a fire. With each passing moment, it was getting harder to see as the light faded away.

After a fire was successfully started, the men gathered around the warm flames. The light of the fire was reflected in everyone’s eyes as they stared at the dancing flames, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I don’t suppose anyone thought about packing food for the road?” d’Artagnan brooded. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, me too.” Porthos grumbled just as his stomach gave a loud growl, as though to prove a point.

The three turned to stare at Porthos, trying hard not to laugh.

“Told ya I was hungry.” Porthos muttered.

“Hey, I have some hard biscuits in my saddlebag!” Aramis jumped up as he remembered having packed them at the garrison. 

“We also have that bottle of Champagne. . .” d’Artagnan suggested with some hesitation.

“No, we will drink the Champagne when we’re at home--after this mission is over.” Athos rejected the suggestion. “Besides, we need to keep our heads clear tonight. We will all take turns keeping watch during the night. I want someone awake at all times, should anything happen.”

Aramis returned with a bag of hard biscuits and a flask filled with water. “Well, it isn’t much but, at least, it will take the edge off.”

*****

“It’s time to turn in,” Athos ordered. “I will stand the first watch. We will each keep watch for two hours, at which time you will wake the next person for duty. ‘Mis, I will wake you first, so try to get some rest.”

“Great,” Aramis huffed. “Why am I always first?”

 

Athos walked around the bivouac area, looking far into the trees in every direction to make sure nothing lurked in the dark. An occasional clap of thunder made him jump, despite himself. The bright flashes of lightening illuminated the forest, creating strange shadows that played tricks on even this experienced, well-trained Musketeer. 

On one particularly loud and sudden crash of thunder Athos gasped aloud, his heart pounded heavily in his chest. “Pull yourself together, dammit,” he ordered himself. 

He walked over to the horses, taking softly to them while gently petting them as if to calm them. . . to calm himself. Another loud clap of thunder caused him to jump again. His mind wandered back to Torfou, _“I got four. . . there was one more.”_

Aramis’ horse, Belle, stood on a twig, snapping it in half. Athos pulled out his harquebus, his eyes wildly scanned the forest for raiders.

“Athos?” Aramis called softly from a distance, being careful not to startle the man. “Athos. . .?”

Athos blinked hard at hearing his name. The memories faded, leaving him standing with his harquebus lowered by his side; his chest heaving and his head hanging down low with relief. “Aramis. . .”

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked, gently taking the pistol from Athos’ trembling hand. “You want to talk?”

Athos shook his head. “No, I’m fine. . . just tired.” He walked to his place by the fire and lay down, turning to his side to face the fire. 

Aramis shook his head, sadly watching after his tormented friends. _What in the hell happened in that forest?_

 

Aramis was startled by the sound of talking and leaves rustling. He looked to the fire to find Porthos writhing in his sleep, muttering questions and commands to the ghosts of the Torfou Forest. 

_Here we go again._

“One. . . two. . . three. . . four. . . there were five! One is missing. . . bloody hell, one is missing!” Porthos panicked in his sleep. “You’re not going to get us! Where are you, dammit?”

“Porthos. . . Porthos” Aramis called softly.

The yelling and commotion awoke Athos. He sat up, instantly surmising where Porthos was in his dreams and who he was yelling at. 

Athos moved beside Porthos and placed a hand on his shoulder to wake the dreaming man. Before Athos realized what was happening, Porthos had twisted the Musketeer lieutenant around and held him tightly around the neck in a vise-like choke hold. “I go’ you now, you wretch. You won’t hurt nobody. . . I won’t let ya.”

“Porth’s. . .” squeaked Athos.

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan jumped up, his jaw dropped open in shock. “What the hell? Porthos, let him go!”

“Porthos, you don’t have a raider; it’s Athos you’re strangling. Let him go.” Aramis ordered while trying to loosen the arm around Athos’ neck, but it was too strong. “Porthos, he can’t breathe. Porthos, let him go!”

Athos struggled against the arm holding him tight, cutting off his air, but the grip was just too strong. His face began to turn a dark shade of red as he struggled unsuccessfully to breathe. 

Porthos was deeply lost to his nightmare in the forest--believing he had captured the “missing” raider ambushing his hiding place under the rock. 

Athos continued to struggle against the arm holding him hostage, but he was quickly losing strength. He was losing the strength to even stay awake. Soon, black circles danced around the edges of his vision until his whole world faded into darkness.

Athos’ hands dropped limply to the ground from Porthos’ gripping arm; his body went completely still.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan yelled. “Athos?” The young Gascon was frantic at seeing his mentor hanging limply in Porthos’ grip. “Aramis, we have to _do_ something!”

“Porthos, listen to me, it’s Aramis! It’s your brother, ‘Mis.” Underlying fear in his tone conveyed a distinct sense of alarm. “You _have_ to let go of Athos! He is not a raider; you’re having a bad dream! Wake up!”

“No,” Porthos growled. “I’m not letting this bastard go. He’s not going to hurt Athos anymore.”

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out above them, the sound echoed and reverberated deep into the trees. "Dammit!" Aramis visibly jumped at the sudden and unexpected sound. The medic looked up to see d’Artagnan holding his harquebus, still smoking in his hand. 

“Porthos, wake up!” d’Artagnan yelled, dropping the pistol to the ground as he dropped to his knees beside his friends.

Porthos startled awake from the gunshot to find a limp Athos in his arms—yet he couldn't remember how he got there or what happened. “Athos? Wha’ happened?” Horrified, the large Musketeer loosened his hold on Athos and allowed Aramis to pull him away to safety.

Aramis immediately put his fingers to his friend’s neck, searching for a pulse. He waited, his eyes closed, until he found the familiar beat softly vibrating under his fingers. The medic cried as he breathed out a sigh of relief. “I’ve got a pulse. . . he’s alive!”

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan’s constricted voice squeaked. The Gascon’s throat was tight as a sob threatened to escape.

Porthos’ eyes grew wide at the realization of what happened to Athos. . . and _who_ caused it. “Oh God, no!” he exclaimed with horror. Falling over to his side, Porthos buried his face in his arms and sobbed, “I didn’t mean it. . .” 

D’Artagnan moved beside Porthos, pulling him close to his chest. He wrapped his arms around the large shoulders, shaking with the heavy sobs, and rested his chin in the dark curls. “It’s okay, Porthos,” he soothed. “We know you didn’t mean it—it’s not your fault. Athos is going to be okay.”

Aramis pulled away the scarf wrapped loosely around Athos’ neck and unbuttoned his doublet, checking the neck for injury. Gently and carefully, he ran his fingers over the patient’s neck and throat, now red and swollen. He tilted the lieutenant's head back to open the swollen air passage and allow for easier, unrestricted breathing. 

Aramis softly tapped Athos on the cheek, trying to arouse the unconscious man. “Come on, Athos. Wake up now! Enough sleeping,” he appealed fervidly. The Musketeer lieutenant didn't hear the alarmed appeals of the medic but, rather, continued to lie still. His breaths were raspy and labored but, at least, he was breathing.

“Talk to us, Porthos.” D’Artagnan’s voice was thick with disquieting sadness. At the same time, however, his tone was laced with anger and impatience over the worsening nightmares. “What the hell happened out there that would cause you to react like this?”

“This ends tonight, Porthos.” Aramis said from his place beside Athos, his jaw set hard. “Don’t say that you’re fine, because you’re not. You are _going_ to tell us what happened, and we’re not moving from this spot until you do. This is going to stop. Tonight.”

“I-I don’t. . . I can’t. . .”

“Porthos, you almost _strangled_ Athos,” d’Artagnan stated, incredulous. “These nightmares have gone beyond a frightening nuisance; they’re becoming violent. The nightmares are not just affecting you anymore, they're affecting all of us—and they're only going to get worse.”

“Something severe happened in that forest, Porthos.” Aramis added, fervently. “Unless you talk about it—completely unbury the memories—the nightmares will continue haunting you. The memories will hasten you to madness and violence—you’ve already seen what your nightmares are driving you to do.” 

Porthos remained quiet. Through watery eyes, he stared into the face of his unconscious friend, taking a limp hand into his own.

“Porthos, trust me, it’s not good to keep the horrors you’ve experienced locked away,” Aramis said, softly. “The memories will eat away at you, gnawing constantly at your mind, never allowing you peace until you face your fears. By letting us help you, you are letting go of the nightmares that grip you in your sleep and hold you hostage.”

“I-I’m not sure where to start,” Porthos hesitated.

“Aramis and I know nothing of what happened after we were attacked on the road by the forest. Only you and Athos know that,” d’Artagnan prompted.

**Back to the Beginning:**

“Both of you were unconscious,” Porthos began. “Athos had you, Aramis, and I had you, d’Artagnan, and we rode hard and fast with your horses tethered to ours. It didn’t take long for the raiders to gain on us. Athos knew they would soon catch up and we would all be killed. He ordered us into the forest, to try to lose them in the trees.”

“Just like he ordered us into the trees to escape this storm today,” d’Artagnan said.

“Aye,” Porthos nodded. “Five of them followed us zigzagging through the trees; soon, they were gaining on us once again. They must have had problems with their weapons because they stopped for a moment. Athos seized the opportunity, taking us behind some large rocks. He ordered me to hand over my pistols and take you both to the _Château de Chamarande_ while he held the raiders off.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan traded emotional glances, understanding beginning to wash over each man.

“I didn’t want to leave him there alone,” Porthos wiped his eyes. “But we had no other choice, if we were to save the both of you.”

“After I dropped you two off at the château, I later went back to the forest to find Athos. When he didn’t return, I knew somethin’ was wrong. I found the rocks where I left Athos, but it was almost pitch black so I had to light a torch to see. I found the bodies scattered around, almost in a circle, by the rocks.” Porthos paused and took a deep, trembling breath.

“I started counting the bodies, following a grisly and bloody trail, until I got to the fifth raider.”

“What happened, Porthos?” d’Artagnan whispered.

Porthos looked up, pain drowned in the tears laden with bad memories. “I looked to the right of the fifth body and found a sixth body--a dark pool of blood staining the dirt underneath him. I knew it was Athos and, sure enough, when I held the torch up I saw his doublet. I saw his pauldron,” he shuddered at the memory.

“Then the storm hit, drowning out my torch,” Porthos continued. “It was jus’ like this storm—a sudden torrential downpour. I found shelter under the rocks; but without the fire I was sittin’ in the pitch darkness. Only when lightening flashed across the sky, lighting up the forest, could I see anything.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan remained quiet, waiting for Porthos to continue when he was ready.

“Each time the lightening flashed I counted the bodies. . . makin’ sure they were still there. Makin’ sure one didn’t get up to attack us in the dark. I stayed there waitin’ for the storm to pass—watchin’ to see if the bodies moved.”

“That’s why we hear you counting in your dreams,” Aramis said. He at last realized the horrors of Porthos’ nightmares.

“Yes,” Porthos nodded. “The lightening would flash and I’d start counting, _one, two, three, four. . .”_ he paused. “Sometimes I didn’t have eno’ time to count the fifth body so I was ready. . . ready for ‘im, if he attacked.”

“Which is why you attacked Athos,” d’Artagnan surmised. “In your mind, you thought Athos was that fifth guy. . . and you only reacted as you would have that night.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt Athos. . .”

“Of course you didn’t mean to hurt him, Porthos.” Aramis soothed. “We understand now. My God, it’s no wonder why you have had such terrifying nightmares.”

“It’s horrible you had to experience that alone, Porthos,” d’Artagnan whispered. 

“He wasn’t alone. . .” a raspy voice whispered.

“Athos!” Porthos exclaimed. “You’re awake! Thank God,” he squeezed the hand he was still holding. 

Aramis took Athos’ other hand in his own and squeezed gently. “How are you feeling, my friend? How does your throat feel?”

“Sore,” he rasped.

“I’m really sorry ‘bout that, Athos.” Porthos apologized sadly. “I’m so sorry. . .”

“It’s not your fault,” Athos whispered. “Anybody would have nightmares. . . after going through that," he paused, his throat feeling raw. "I remember only glimpses," he stopped, his throat too sore to continue.

"Well, evidently, it’s enough to create residual terrors with you also, Athos,” Aramis said. “Just before it was my turn to take watch, you looked like you were reliving some bad memories of your own from that night in the forest.”

Athos closed his eyes, remembering the sounds—the lurking fears—that took him back to Torfou tonight while on watch. A tear escaped an eye and rolled down his temple, disappearing into his hair.

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked, noticing the flash of memory glance across his friend’s face. He wiped away the wet trail of the tear.

Athos nodded slightly, keeping his eyes closed. He was so tired he just wanted to sleep, but Porthos needed to know he was not to blame.

"Look, all of us have been impacted by that mission to Orléans; we have all been touched, both physically and emotionally. We will carry with us the scars from Torfou for the rest of our lives.” Aramis spoke to the group.

“But tonight, all the guilt; the fear; the terror; the nightmares; all the memories of Torfou; **all** of it ends right here!” Aramis said, his tone steeled with resolve. 

“Tonight, we all just let it go,” Aramis continued. "Let it all go—everything about Torfou—let it all go. We talked about it; we exposed it, and we’ve relived it. Enough! It ends for all of us—especially you, Porthos—it ends tonight! Don’t let the ghosts of Torfou haunt your mind or your dreams anymore. It ends now.”

“It ends now!" D’Artagnan nodded with determination.

“It ends now.” Porthos said, his jaw set hard with determination. He has had more than his fill of these dreams and he was more than ready to let them go. . . forever. If he ever had another thought of Torfou, it would be too soon.

“All for one. . .” a raspy voice whispered.

“And one for all,” the Musketeers chimed in together.

The corners of Athos’ mouth curled with an almost imperceptible smile. He then allowed his head to loll to the side as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

*****

**Later, On the Road Home:**

“I’m really sorry about what I did to you last night—choking you like ‘at.” Porthos apologized softly.

“Did you not hear Aramis last night?” Athos’ gravelly voice whispered. “He said it was over. It’s done; it’s in the past. We will speak of it no more, Porthos. It’s over.” The lieutenant clapped his larger friend on the knee. 

Athos’ face suddenly lit up, his mouth curled into a wily smile. “Now, let’s go home—our Champagne awaits.” The lieutenant gently kicked his horse into a gallop, racing far ahead of the group—a silent challenge for his brother Musketeers to catch up.

The remaining three Musketeers exchanged determined glances. Kicking their own horses into a run, they accepted the challenge and raced to catch up to their leader.

“All for one...” Porthos shouted.

“. . . and one for all,” they replied together.

 **Post Script, At the Garrison:**

The four weary Musketeers sat around the wooden table as the candlelight cast eerie shadows around the empty room. Athos poured Champagne into four cups then raised his cup in a toast. “Here’s to uninterrupted sleep and sweet dreams.”

"Here's to Champagne and no more nightmares," they echoed, touching cups.

"It's good to be home," Athos smiled.

finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you all enjoyed the story. Please, let me know what you think in the comments section.
> 
> PTSD is a common after-effect of going through a traumatic experience; whether war, accident, natural disaster etc…  
> Nightmares and/or flashbacks are common occurrences and oftentimes will send the individual back to the experience in their mind. It can be so real it's as though they are actually re-living the experience--yet it’s only in their mind. 
> 
> PTSD is a sickness that is finally being studied and taken seriously; with victims of PTSD being treated with the medical care they so desperately need. Sad that this illness was not taken seriously before, considering it can affect others around the person suffering. We are seeing in several cases in which someone suffering from PTSD has a break-down and, oftentimes, the episode leads to violence.


End file.
